


Canis Ex Machina

by Kicker



Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Canis Ex Machina, Depression, Gen, i.e. DOGGO
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-16
Updated: 2017-09-16
Packaged: 2018-12-30 07:52:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12104130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kicker/pseuds/Kicker
Summary: After the events of Blind Betrayal, ex-Paladin Danse is struggling; not that he'd admit it. The listening post is a fortress and yet vulnerable; claustrophobic and yet full of empty space.What he wants is for someone to take him in hand and snap him out of his slump.He gets a dog instead.





	Canis Ex Machina

Paladin Danse used to be fond of dogs.

Back in the Capital Wasteland, long before being assigned to the Prydwen, he'd often snuck away from the mess hall to go check on the dogs that guarded the perimeter and accompanied his brothers and sisters on missions. He'd secretly feed them whatever scraps he thought he could spare, show them a little of the tenderness he thought they deserved.

The Brotherhood treated them well, that's true. But no better than a favored gun, or a set of power armor. They were just another weapon in the arsenal, another tool used to dispense justice in the wastes.

He and his squad had brought no dogs on their expedition to the Commonwealth. The distance was too far, and the terrain they crossed too harsh to risk potentially unruly animals disrupting their plans. Human instinct was what was required to survive.

 _Human instinct,_ he thinks, wryly. _Perhaps that's why Gladius almost came to ruin._

He shakes his head to dismiss the thought, further wondering what brought him to think of dogs when he should be paying attention to his work. He's sat beside one of the turrets on the flat roof of Listening Post Bravo. Behind him, its partner performs its defensive duties with that oddly comforting rhythm of whirs and mechanical groans. But this one? This one is refusing to cooperate.

They're both set in an awkward position for maintenance. Right now, he has one leg hanging down the damp-stained concrete wall of the bunker, and the other tucked under him in a manner that is already causing him to lose sensation in his foot. And just to compound his irritation, the light is failing. He leans in close to the control panel to make out the coloration of the deteriorating wiring within. If that one is pink, rather than red, and that one is just faded rather than intentionally striped, perhaps that would explain the turret's recalcitrance.

The Prydwen had not brought its own teams of dogs, either. But he'd seen the requisition orders for them, in the brief time that he'd been able to return to his own quarters. He'd never found out where they were kept; it couldn't be too close to the ship itself. The constantly throbbing engines of the great airship had seemed to discomfit those that had been brought to it in the past. That was hardly untrue for the humans assigned to it, either. But in a reversal of usual experience, they seemed to acclimate far faster than their canine companions.

He had, that was for sure. It had seemed unbearable at first. It had been hard even to go barefoot in the showers or for those few moments before falling into his bunk, what with the raw power of the ship seeming to shake him to his very core. But acclimate he had, to a degree that even now he finds the yawning silence of the listening post at night unsettling. He has to tune a radio to one of the tedious local stations just to fill the air with something, _anything_ to distract him from his own thoughts.

But that's a concern for night-time. Which has as little relevance to his present predicament as the Brotherhood's attitude toward dogs.

Or anything, for that matter.

Danse closes his eyes, lets out a sigh, and refocuses his attention on the turret.

~

Barely a few minutes pass before he becomes distracted again. This time his thoughts are not to blame; instead it's a movement on the other side of the listening post's clearing.

He stops, holds still, holds his breath almost. But he can't see anything. Everything is still, with not even a whisper of wind to scatter dust over asphalt or shake the dry leaves on the withered brambles below.

He looks back to the turret but no sooner does he do so than again, in the corner of his vision something moves. Something... not large, exactly, at least not large enough to merit a quick and potentially dangerous jump down from the roof and into the safety of the bunker.

Still large enough to wish that he was armed.

He shifts his grip on the screwdriver and remains alert. His clothes are dusty enough that he should be almost invisible against the rough rockface into which the bunker is built, but the sun is setting behind him. He could well be visible, as a silhouette if nothing else.

As he watches, the thick, shabby undergrowth on the other side of the clearing shakes. He tightens his grasp on the screwdriver. The rest of the toolbox is a few feet away, and he could potentially reach it. However, the contents are arguably even less use to him in a fight than the tool currently in his hand. Perhaps he could throw a handful of screws in their eyes. Perhaps use some of the many broken pencils and dried-out ballpoint pens as distracting ballistics.

Whatever it is, it crawls from the undergrowth and into the clearing before he has a chance to reach back for it.

And what it is, is a dog. And not a hairless, mutated beast, no better than a feral ghoul. Not a cruelty-maddened raider-dog, either. It's a black-and-tan hound, limping heavily, holding one front paw up off the ground as if it can't put weight on it.

And it's looking right at him.

Danse takes stock of the situation. A dog in such good condition - injury aside - must have an owner nearby. A trader, perhaps, lost on the road and looking for help. Or a mercenary, sent to quietly find and conceal the Elder's dirty little secret.

Logic says that he should retreat into the bunker and allow the automated defences to do their work.

But Paladin Danse used to be fond of dogs.

He's not a Paladin now. He's not even sure if he's Danse, or if Danse ever existed. But in the eerie quiet he can clearly hear the dog's whimpering and it stirs those feelings of sympathy, of concern, of _care_ that make him feel most human.

It would be remiss of him not to at least check on the animal.

Inhuman, even.

So he draws himself upright, and makes his careful way down to the clearing, screwdriver held tight in his hand. All the while, the dog sits on the asphalt and watches him. And as he gets closer he sees more clearly that the animal's coat is wet and ragged, and it appears to be shivering despite the warmth of the early summer's evening.

"Uh," he says. "Hello... dog."

The dog lets out a low, whimpering whine.

"Where's your owner?" he asks.

The dog can't answer, of course. It just looks up at him with huge, sad eyes, and lifts its paw even further from the ground.

Danse sighs. The area surrounding the listening post is quiet but it's not far from a few notable feral hotspots, not to mention the fertile radstag hunting grounds nearby. If found by either kind of enemy, it would be a quick death for the animal, that's for sure.

But to leave it out here to that death does seem unnecessarily cruel.

So he heads toward the bunker, pushes open its heavy metal door, and turns back to look at the dog.

"Come on," he says.

The dog's ears twitch forward, just a little. But it doesn't move.

"Come on," he repeats, more firmly. "You can come inside. But only up here, and only for tonight. I can't... I can't look after a dog. We'll find your owner or a better place for you tomorrow."

~

Of course, his intention to leave the dog in the bunker's vestibule lasts approximately three high-pitched whines and a weapons-grade pair of puppy-dog eyes.

Luckily it doesn't need to be carried, but it does press itself against the floor of the elevator as it groans down into the depths as though it's terrified. And when the doors slide open, it scurries away under one of the workstations with dark eyes full of pain.

He approaches it, tries to check on the injury it has sustained. He doesn't really have enough supplies to tend to any wound beyond basic first aid; but it doesn't let him close enough to do even that. It growls and bares sharp, ivory teeth when his hand comes within even a few feet of it.

So he leaves it to its own devices, withdrawing to the room in which he's dragged a mattress, and to one of the bottles of scotch he'd found in one of the desk drawers. He turns on the radio, but the faltering tones of the Diamond City Radio DJ infuriate him to the point that he has to tune to a long-dead frequency.

At some point, sleep overtakes him.

Then at some point after that, he wakes. There's an odd sound in the air, rhythmic, almost like a breath but it's too fast for a human's and what else could have gotten down here? And as he gathers consciousness, an odd smell creeps into his nose, one he's not experienced before in the cramped confines of the bunker.

Then there's a snort.

It is breathing.

There is a living thing in the bunker.

And it's close.

He starts, tries to rise up, but as he does his hand slips off the mattress and knocks over the empty bottle. It goes skittering over the floor, the sound of glass on concrete ringing out like a bell. His heart pounds in his chest, but his eyes won't open, won't focus. Still the sound comes, still the smell, still the fear of what he might have to face.

Then the crashing sense of relief and embarrassment as he realises it's just the dog.

It's sitting just by the end of the mattress, by his bare feet. It's alert, ears pricked up, an absurdly bright pink tongue hanging sloppily out of the side of its mouth. And it's panting, gently, causing that odd sound and possibly also explaining the musty fragrance in the air.

A flush of irritation rises in Danse's chest at the interruption of his sleep and at his own lack of preparedness.

"What do you want?" he snaps.

The words emerge more harshly than he intends, echoing strangely around the sparse furnishings of the room and sparking a rush of pain behind his eyes. He winces, and finds himself having to resist the urge to apologize.

 _It's just a dog_ , he thinks. _You don't need to apologize._

Still the dog just stares, pausing only from its attentiveness to let out a sneeze. It seems to shake the dog to its very core, causing its front paws to splay out over the concrete to keep balance.

"Bless you," says Danse, reflexively.

He frowns at himself, then pushes himself up from the rough mattress. It takes even more effort than usual. His senses are still deadened, his muscles stiff, and the pain behind his eyes shows no signs of dissipating. But the floor of the bunker is refreshingly cold under his feet. For a moment, he considers lying on it, pressing his hot, tired face onto the ground.

But before he can, the dog has already turned and begun to trot out into the main room. It stops and looks back over its shoulder as if to say _well? Are you coming or not?_

Danse shakes his head, confused. Looking at the floor again, he notes the slick of oil or gasoline that's soaked into it and decides that perhaps lying on it would not be the refreshing experience he had initially imagined. Save that for the shower room, not that that's much better with its cracked tiles and blackened grout.

He sighs once more, and follows the dog out into the main room.

~

The listening post wasn't designed for habitation, at least not long-term. Danse had already felt the effects of that once he'd realized how rudimentary the plumbing system was. Besides that, there was no stove, no refrigerator even; just a coffee machine and a microwave oven on a bare stretch of worksurface, and an empty cupboard for storage under it.

Still, there is a single can of purified water on that worksurface, and that's what the dog is staring at now. It's almost tall enough to reach it on its own; in fact, if it rose up on its hind legs instead of sitting with its tail wagging gently over the concrete floor, it could easily reach it for itself.

 _It is a dog, though_ , Danse reminds himself. _How would it open it?_

Whatever. Water. Water is good. Water might help to quell the ache in his head, so he opens the can and drains half of it in a few mouthfuls. It settles uneasily in his stomach, enough that he has to close his eyes, hold his breath, hold back the nausea by force of will alone.

 _Idiot,_ he thinks. _You can't just drink the pain away._

_But what else can I do?_

When he looks back down he finds the dog is staring up at him with hopeful eyes. As he watches, the dog looks between his face and the can, licking its lips with that bright pink tongue.

 _You're better at communicating than I ever was_ , thinks Danse.

He has no bowl he can use for the animal, not even a plate. So he leans down and pours a trickle of water into his palm. At first the dog sniffs cautiously at it, then proceeds to drink the proffered water with a noisy enthusiasm.

Danse sighs and looks away, trying to ignore the decidedly unpleasant sensation of the dog's tongue on his hand. He does have other things to think about, after all. A suitable receptacle for the dog's water isn't the only problem. The bunker contains only a limited amount of food, just what he could bring with him in his flight from the Prydwen, plus the few vegetables he'd scavenged from the surrounding area.

Not that it's a major consideration. He won't be keeping the dog, after all.

With the can empty, the dog now lets out a soft sound, something too quiet to properly be termed a bark, but not mournful enough for a whine or whimper. Danse doesn't have a good word to describe it, so he nods at it.

"You're welcome," he says.

Then he frowns at himself again, for according such courtesies to a dumb animal. But said dumb animal starts to pant again, its mouth opening wide in something he could almost describe as a smile if he weren't sure it could not be the case.

Danse isn't sure of many things, any more. _Why draw the line at this?_ he thinks, and reaches down to scruff the dog briefly behind its ears.

It makes that odd sound again, then lurches away, claws pitter-pattering on the rough concrete floor, dancing away toward the elevator then standing and looking back at him once more.

It takes him a moment to realise the dog's requirements.

 _I suppose a dog can't use a urinal,_ he thinks.

Then, _if you know not to go in here you **definitely** have an owner somewhere._

But the dog still circles in front of the gray-painted door, even raises a paw to scratch ineffectively at it. So, Danse presses the button. He accompanies the dog into the elevator. He follows it out into the open, where the morning sun is just beginning to glitter through the dew-soaked leaves of the trees around the listening post. It's... almost pleasant.

The dog scuffles through the leaves, scampering away out of sight and then back. And somehow it finds a plaything amidst the rubble, a discarded toy in the shape of a rocketship. It picks it up between those sharp teeth and brings it to him.

He finds himself throwing it for the dog to fetch. He claps his hands for the dog to bring it back, then repeats the endeavour.

He... plays with the dog.

He _plays_.

That's something he can't remember ever having done before. There's no point, no meaning, no designated objective. It's just the joy of watching the dog leap through the undergrowth, tail wagging almost too fast to be seen, then come trotting proudly back with the toy held between its jaws.

It strikes him like a blow to the chest. All those years of dedication, of commitment to a cause that had ultimately been his undoing. And he's already considering a pointless game with a dog to be more _meaningful_? He falls back against the wall of the bunker, and slides down onto the floor. The tears rise up from his very core, threaten to spill before he's understood where they come from.

A clatter of claws announces the dog's presence by his side. It drops the rocketship by his feet, and leans heavily against his knee, against his whole thigh. It doesn't look at him. It just... leans. And somehow that contact, that closeness tells him what the dog wants to say.

_I'm here._

He reaches out to the dog with an uncertain hand. Then he gently drops it onto the back of the dog's neck, runs his fingers through its glossy coat.

And he cries. He cries for everything he's lost. Everything that's been taken from him. Everything that that could have been.

~

When he's done, or at least when the surge of emotion is over, the dog is still there. It doesn't even look back at him, it just darts away to pick up the rocketship and carry it back into the bunker's vestibule. Even as Danse wipes the drying tears from his face, he can't help but smile at the echoing squeaks from the toy, and the dog's obvious enjoyment of it.

He follows the dog back in, though he finds himself less willing to descend down to the depths, knowing that he'll only have to come out again in a few hours. It would make more sense to be somewhere above ground, where the dog could roam freely and not rely on Danse to get in an elevator any time it needed to relieve itself.

If he keeps the dog, that is.

~

He's keeping the dog.


End file.
